


This is it, the apocalypse, whoa!

by Splat_Dragon



Series: Silent Savior [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Undead nightmare
Genre: Being Rewritten, Blood and Gore, Gore, POV Original Character, Undead Nightmare - Freeform, What-If, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies, no beta we die like men, non-canon, off-shoot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2020-12-09 11:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20994026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Okay, so being sent into a video game? Yeah, that's kind of weird. Being turned into a dog? Even weirder.Thankfully, the epilogue was pretty easy. So long as she didn't get killed, it all just moved along on its own. John was the driving force, and Sadie too, she supposed.Soon, though, the first game will start, and she's doing whatever she can to prevent it. How could she have known that Undead Nightmare was canon?





	1. Cold wind blows into the skin ; Can't believe the state you're in

**Author's Note:**

> Hey so I dunno what this is
> 
> but I loved Undead Nightmare and I love Ginny and thought why not? This is not an official Silent Savior fic, and it will have no effect on the other stories in the series.
> 
> Also I will be working on Can't Quite Remember! I just have _not_ been able to sit down and write somewhere where I can listen to the walkthrough.

She was old, then.

Her bones creaked, and her joints ached. She hopped more than she ran, and she didn’t do much of that anymore. Her days of chasing deer and cats, of herding cattle and hunting pronghorn, had ended a long time ago.

Every time she saw her reflection, it seemed, more and more grey had streaked her face. Getting to her paws was a struggle, and even Uncle helped her up the stair sometimes. Where it had been forbidden to her before, Abigail let her up on the couch - even helped her up onto it.

She didn’t hear so well anymore. Her back leg went lame in the hip months ago, and the sight in her right eye was going.

But still she kept Rufus in line, he still knew to listen to her. Even if her teeth were too dull to really bite him, and she couldn’t throw him to the ground like she used to. When she’s gone, he’ll be well capable of taking care of them.

  
  


She’d been with them for four years.

They’d been some of the best years of her life. She’d watched John grow into a responsible, if hot tempered, man. Watched Jack grow into a teenager. He wasn’t her little Jackie anymore, and she felt awful for her parents if she gave them half the trouble he did his.

But she’d been with them for four years. She came to them early in 1907, and it was late in 1911. If she’d been a smaller dog, she wouldn’t have been able to help half so much. But four years wouldn’t have aged her so.

And as 1911 neared its end, she knew she needed to be more vigilant than ever. It was never said how the Pinkertons got ahold of Jack and Abigail, but she could guess. When John left the ranch, she didn’t go with him. When Uncle left the ranch, she didn’t go with him either. She went with Abigail and Jack, clambered into the wagon and watched and listened as best she could, did her best to guard them even as her body failed her.

And around the ranch, she had taken up rounds. She bugged them until someone let her out, then paced slowly around the grounds for as long as she could. Her hearing was going, and she feared not hearing them until they were on top of them. But her hips were weak, and she couldn’t walk for long, so when her legs began to buckle she made her way to the tree and laid down, basked in the sun as it warmed her bones.

She didn’t let herself sleep. She couldn’t hear the people riding by on the roads, so she had to keep watch. Look out for the Pinkertons, wait for them to get close and warn them. She didn’t bark much anymore - never really did - so she knew it would make them come running, guns drawn.

But there was nothing she could do to stop him from catching the Pinkertons’ eye. He’d used his real name on the loan, had gone on a rampage against Bell’s Gang, had killed a Pinkerton information though she’d tried her best to stop all she could from the moment her paws had touched the dirt of West Elizabeth. His path had been set in stone the moment he took the loan.

So all she could do was try and cut things off at the root, and keep the Pinkertons from kidnapping Abigail and Jack.


	2. Something evil's lurking in the dark ; Under the moonlight

She’d learned to trust her instincts.

And something was very, _ very, _wrong.

Her bones itched more than they ached, and her blood boiled in a way it hadn’t in a very long time. Not for the first time that day, she heaved herself to her paws with a groan, and took to pacing again.

Was tonight the night? Were the Pinkterons coming?

  
  


But it was storming outside, odd rumblings that rattled her bones and clattered her teeth together, sheets of rain that hit the roof hard enough to be loud even to her ears, and she was sure that they were not that foolish.

She walked from one end of the room to the other, grumbling in discontent, her hips aching even as she kept her lame leg off the ground. “Gin, girl, c’mere,” Abigail beckoned, stooping down and sloshing around the bowl of stew she’d put down for her that morning to try and make it enticing. It was little more than broth, the meat so cooked through that it was all-but liquid so that she could eat it with dull and missing teeth, but like that morning it failed to draw her interest. Unease curdled her stomach, tore away any appetite she might have had. Something was _ wrong, _and she wouldn’t be settled until she knew what it was.

“Crazy dog,” she grumbled as she returned to her sewing, but her scent had soured some with concern.

God, but she hurt, and for a moment she tried to lay down, to take some weight off of her joints, but agitation had her on her paws in moments. Thunder cracked, and she could feel it in her bones, aching and throbbing, and she couldn’t help but to whine, rising to hobble back and forth, back and forth.

Oh, she wished John and Uncle were home. They’d left earlier in the day, and weren’t back yet. Something was going to happen, she could feel it deep in her bones, and the fact that they weren’t home yet made her fur stand on end.

  
  


“What’s wrong with Gin?”

At least, though, Jack was home.

The boy frowned at her, shifting his book to hold it in one hand, scratching between her ears with the other before slouching down on the couch. It felt _ so familiar, _and something niggled at the back of her mind - she should know this. She shook her head irritably as though trying to cast away a fly; normally she’d do anything for a bit of affection, but she didn’t want to be distracted.

“Dunno,” Abigail said, attention on her sewing, “she’s been like this all day. Maybe it’s the storm?”

She scoffed at the thought—as if a storm could scare her! She doesn’t like thunder, sure, but she wasn’t afraid of a little storm.

This, though, didn’t feel like a normal storm. It had been pouring all day, and the thunder was all around odd, didn’t sound right even to her ears, and the lightning looked strange through the window.

“A little storm’s never bothered her before,” Jack frowned, flipping open his book and beginning to read.

  
  


The living room went quiet, broken only by Abigail’s murmuring, the clicking of her needles and the rasping of the pages of Jack’s book as he flipped them, engrossed in… whatever it was he was reading.

God, did she miss reading. Sometimes he read aloud to her, but not nearly as much as he used to, and she missed it.

Her ears pricked up and, although her hearing wasn't what it used to be, it was still good enough to pick up the sound of hoofbeats outside, thumping beneath rattling wagon wheels. She hoped it was John and Uncle, and it _ should _ be them, but it could have been anyone, even the Pinkertons and, with how the day had felt so far she wasn’t risking it, so she stumbled over to the window, feeling awful sorry for herself as she wobbled up onto the windowsill, struggling to balance on a leg and a half, squinting out into the storm.

  
  


Oh, she knew those horses! That Paint, Jack called her Beatrix after an author he liked, and that Appaloosa, John had named her Axle, and they made an odd pair but worked well together. And yes! There was John clambering out of the wagon but—where was Uncle?

And _ why was this so familiar? _

Reassured that it was just John, she dropped from the windowsill with a groan, glad to take the weight off her hips. Still though, agitation rolled through her gut and she couldn’t help but to pace and pace, starting to frog hop, drawing her hindlegs together and stepping with them both at the same time - it hurt less.

  
  


_ ‘Oh, John’ll kill you for that,’ _ she snorted as Jack kicked his feet up onto the couch, shoes and all. But Abigail saved him from a hiding, chastising him into putting his feet back down right before John stepped inside. She wagged her tail at him, then wagged it even harder when he agreed “Something funny’s going on out there.”

_ “Thank you!” _ she whuffed, _ “Finally, someone with some sense!” _ and then she realized she’d said that John had sense and wondered if she’d lost her mind. He reached down to pet her, “Hey Gin,” stroking his hand down her spine and then between her hips.

She squealed, a sharp pain shooting through them, and they buckled, sending her crashing to the ground. It was humiliating and, even as he said “Oh _ shit, _(“Father!” “Is she alright?”) sorry Gin,” bringing his hands under her to scoop her back onto her feet, she hid her face in her paws.

  
  


She wobbled on her paws, hips feeling weak, praying that they didn’t give out on her again, that she could last through the end of the year, took a step and decided to lie down when they ached, hiding her muzzle between her forelegs. She still wanted to pace and pace and pace, but her hips wouldn’t allow it.

“Damn Rufus’s gone crazy, wolves howlin’ and birds flyin’,” John grumbled, stooping to scratch that spot behind her ear apologetically before walking up behind Abigail, who dismissed it as ‘just the storm, John’ again.

“Uncle make it back yet?” he asked, and she groaned, knowing that it’s _ not just that storm, dammit! _ and, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, wished that she could speak.

She shoved him away, and Guinevere panted a laugh at the wounded expression on his face, though her words sobered her. “I thought he was with you, off drinking in the fields,” she’d been dozing when they’d left, so hadn’t known where they’d gone, and something about it struck her wrong, “I mean working, as you call it now.”

There was a funny noise outside, and she raised her head from her paws to look at the window. Something moved, but the storm was pelting down so hard she couldn’t pick out much more than the movement itself, the rain so heavy it was little more than a curtain of grey. It was there and gone so fast, though, that maybe she imagined it?

“No, he went into town a few hours ago, after we busted that hammer workin’ in the meadow.” John was kneeling, tossing wood into the fireplace from the sound of it, but her attention was still held by the window. What had that been?

She startled, yelping when something wrapped around her, only to look up and find John carefully scooping her up. Abigail made a joke about Uncle waiting out the storm in a whorehouse as he set her down by the fireplace, and she stretched out with a groan and a thankful thwap of her tail, laying so she could stare out the window, basking in the heat that soaked into her bones.

  
  


There was that sound again!

She jolted her head up, barely hearing John agree with her in a roundabout way, squinting: what _ was _ that? There was something resting on the window, brownish-grey, there and gone in a heartbeat and if she didn’t know there wasn’t a tree there she would have thought it a tree branch.

  
  


There was movement in the corner of her eye and she jumped, flinching, turning only to see Abigail getting to her feet. She snorted, sniffing the air, but the building was, admittedly, well-built and well-insulated and so the only smell was John, filthy and reeking of horse-sweat, and the offness of whatever Abigail had spent the day cooking.

She walked away to work on cooking it and John slumped down into her chair, while Jack remained absorbed in his book. She paid half an ear’s worth of attention as she stared at the window, trying to figure out what she’d seen before, her fur standing on end. Something was very, _ very _ wrong, and how only John could feel it was baffling.

  
  


“What you readin’?” John asked, and she fought down a groan. Bless his heart, but he couldn’t bond with Jack to save his life. Bless him, really, but he _was_ trying.

“Just some book about monsters,” Jack grunted, and she frowned, feeling as though she’d heard this conversation before.

There was an awkward silence, long enough that she turned her ears back to the window, slowly and carefully stretching out onto her side, keeping as much of her weight off of her hip as she could, until John finally said “Tell me about it,” and she grinned, _ “Good job John! That’s how you dad!” _ He was actually showing interest in something Jack was doing!

“It’s kind of dumb,” Jack grunted, and she groaned, _ “Come on Jack, he’s giving you an olive branch! Stop being such a teenager!” _

And holy shit, John actually made a joke back at him, “Well that should suit me just fine,” and she couldn’t help but to laugh, huffing loudly.

“Well, it’s all about in ancient times how Aztec warriors worshiped the sun but, during full moons, some of them worshiped the moon instead.”

Her brain stuttered to a stop. Hold on, freeze frame, pause the movie. Did he say _ Aztec warriors? _

Oh, oh no. Now she knew where she’d heard this conversion before _ (“and upset the equilibrium of things.”) _ There was no way, absolutely no way at all. She’d accept being turned into a dog. She’d accept time travel. She’d even accept falling into a _ different goddamn dimension. _

But zombies, no, zombies were too far! There was no such things as zombies, and there was no way she was in Undead Nightmare!

No way, no how, never ever. She refused to accept it. She was weak, she was old, she couldn’t even protect herself from an angry bunny.

What would she do if there were _ zombies _ of all things shambling around in a world where there was no respawning, only horrifically final Game Overs?


	3. As horror looks you right between your eyes ; You're paralyzed

The evening passed by uneventfully.

She was still on edge and, no matter how hard she tried, the sight of that grey whatever-it-was wouldn’t leave her mind. It could have been a twig flung by the storm, or even a particularly dumb bird that had tricked her failing eyes.

And yet something about it felt wrong. John and Jack’s conversation… it just had to be a coincidence, it just _ had _ to be, but at the beginning of the game—well, it had been such a long time, but she had a vague, vague memory of something pressing against a window.

But Undead Nightmare _ couldn’t _ be real, because she had been sent there to protect them, and how could she protect them from _ zombies _ of all things?

  
  


So, in spite of her churning stomach, she ate the chicken Abigail had made for her, pulled to pieces and stewed for so long that it fell apart disappointingly on her tongue, lapping up the broth in the bowl. Abigail was painfully insistent that she finished the whole thing, grumbling at her to the point that John teased her “Why don’t you feed me like that?”

“Lose your teeth, and I just might!” she had barked, though with very little bite, and she’d snorted so hard that, if the chicken were any firmer, she’d have choked. But by then she was so sleepy that she’d licked her offered fingers clean before dropping her head to the carpet in front of the fire, despite her misgivings about what might happen in the night.

  
  


She must have put something in the broth, that must have been why she was so insistent that she ate and drank it all, as she slept through the door slamming open, the shuffling of dragged feet on the floor, the scent of rot and blood, and rasping, groaned breaths. She slept through raised voices and the sound of shattering glass, the thump of a body hitting the ground and the rapid pattering of bare feet on wood.

It took Abigail screaming bloody murder to get her on her feet. She was on her paws before she was even awake, fur standing on end and teeth bared, snarling with a ferocity she’d lost years ago. She swayed on her paws, still groggy and bleary from whatever she’d slipped her, blinking, barely taking in what was happening and—

Oh, _ god. _

  
  


Abigail was being chased by Uncle, but he could only barely be called that. His mouth was surrounded by blood, his facial hair stained with it. His skin was grey-green, like so many corpses she’d had the misfortune of coming across, lips peeled back in a snarl no human had a right to make, teeth more yellowed than they’d been before.

She never did forgive herself, but she froze, her paws stuck to the ground as though with glue, snarl dying in her chest, fur flattening against her body, huddling in on herself until her stomach touched the rug.

It was only when there was a loud gunshot and poor, dumb Jack ran passed her that she shook herself out of her stupor and began to move. Feeling much, much younger, her aches and pains forgotten, she straightened up and bolted after him, trying to stop him, not sure why, desperately straining her memory but she hadn’t played Undead Nightmare in years even before being brought there so even what she did remember was so, so foggy.

  
  


“Good lord! What’s happened? Momma?”

She stopped on the stoop, perking her ears and staring. The immediate danger or, at least, looking at Abigail, writhing on the ground, the danger that she could help with, lay dead, _ truly _ dead, on the ground in a pool of his own blood.

Jack, though, knelt next to the other. Oh, shit.

_ “Jack, don’t!” _ she barked as she leapt down the stairs. Her legs buckled, pain flaring through her hips, but she forced herself through it, lurching forward as fast she could, but was too late, Abigail grabbing him by his union suit and sinking her teeth into his neck. She set her own into the back of his pajamas, pulling, and he fell back and curled in on himself, hand around his neck, trying to stop the bleeding.

And _ oh, _ he reeked! Not as strong as Uncle had, still did, actually, and not half so much as Abigail, but it was rapidly growing stronger. John was saying something, but she didn’t listen, stumbling back, baring her teeth and flattening her ears. She didn’t want to, they were her family in all-but blood, but they smelled so _ wrong, _so dangerous, like a cougar or a bear but far, far worse, and she wanted nothing more than to turn tail and run. But she couldn’t just leave John to deal with them, so she dug in her paws and stood vigil as Jack, too, turned while John went to get his lasso, and the pair of them began to rise.

_ “Uh, John?” _ she barked, backing up as they began to stagger towards her, groaning, _ “We kind of have a problem?” _

He was hurrying out of the shed but—okay, yeah, gotta go. Jack lunged for her, smaller and faster than his mother, and her hip wouldn’t let her whirl around, so she bolted forward instead, nearly knocking him over as he wobbled, trying to follow her. She barked as loud and as fast as she could, trying to… well, she didn’t know what. Keep their attention? Get John’s attention? For no reason other than out of panic?

Either way, she barked and ran in circles around them, not wanting to lead them anywhere but not wanting to get grabbed, either. Finally, though, a lasso came from seemingly out of nowhere, cinching tight around Abigail’s ankles and bringing her to the ground with an audible crunch. Oh, Abigail was going to _ kill _ John for breaking her nose!

John was distracted by hog-tying Abigail, so it was up to her to keep Jack distracted. She kept running in circles, hoping he would hurry up because _ wow _ this was starting to hurt, only to realize suddenly that oh god Jack had moved and, looking at John, was getting close to him. John hadn’t noticed him yet, busy trying to bind Abigail’s hands without getting bit so, knowing that she’d regret it later, she ran as fast as she could and leapt, slamming into Jack’s side and taking him to the ground.

  
  


Pain exploded through her body.

Distantly, as though from far away, she heard John shout.

She blinked, blearily able to see him pinning Jack down, struggling to get him tied up.

Oh, oh, that had been a mistake. Her everything, her poor everything.

  
  


John picked Jack up carefully, holding his head away from him, hair knotted in his hand to keep his face turned away, vanishing inside. She groaned, turning to stare at Abigail, making sure that she wasn’t freeing herself, but she was only thrashing ineffectively.

By the time he’d come back for Abigail, she’d managed to rise to a sit, head dangling, trembling at the throbbing in her joints. All that running had come back to haunt her as the adrenaline left her blood, her hip stabbing sharply with each breath.

If Abigail freed herself, she wouldn’t be able to do anything but bark, if that.

_ “John,” _ she whined, _ “hurry it up.” _

And, thankfully, he did. Grabbed Abigail up carefully, but faster than Jack, having learned from carrying his son, and disappeared into the house. Came back out not long after and dragged Uncle off into the barn, scowling, before walking back to her.

“Good dog Gin,” he gave her a strained grin, scratching behind her ears. She groaned, but thumped her tail against the ground, “That was incredible girl,” although his voice was serious as, well, a zombie attack when he said, “But _ never _ attack Jack again.”

_ “Well,” _ she huffed, _ “I’ll just let you be bit next time, I’m sure I can put the mask back on my own.” _

He stooped down, wrapping his arms around her as gently as he could, but still pain shot through her and she groaned as he picked her up, carrying her inside to set her down in front of the fire. She could hear Jack and Abigail moaning and groaning and snarling and thumping from his and Abigail’s room and, even as he pressed carefully along her ribs, her hips (she yelped) and her legs, she kept her ears focused on them, wishing she could have stopped it, hating herself for freezing.

She’d known it would happen, but her denial had kept her from doing anything.

Then and there, she swore that no one would get hurt under her watch again.

No matter what happened to her in return.


	4. don't stop 'til you agree

It was obvious John didn’t know what to do.

He’d put Abigail and Jack down in their bedroom on the bed, and she cringed at the thought of what the blood and their… _ fluids… _would do to the fabric. After that he, well, did nothing productive.

Her everything still hurt, that impact on the ground doing nothing to help, so she’d laid by the fire, watching as he paced from one end of the room to the other, still clutching his lasso as though it were the only thing keeping him from falling through the earth. _ ‘Ain’t gonna help you, John.’ _

  
  


“Shit Gin, what am I gonna do? I can’t, I can’t _ shoot them, _but they tried to kill me! Abigail tried to kill Jack!” he yelled suddenly, dropping the lasso to run his fingers through his greasy hair.

_ “Nope.” _

“But I have to do something, I can’t just… I can’t just leave them like this!”

_ “Nope.” _

“I… I have to go look for a cure. I have to fix this. They’ll… they’ll be fine here, right? It can’t take me too long, MacDougal’ll know what to do. He… he has to.”

_ “Sure, sure he will. He’s not getting high or anything.” _

  
  


Now with some sort of plan, he didn’t look half so distressed. He stooped down to grab his lasso, and she couldn’t help but to giggle when she realized he was still in his union suit, the buttons straining to keep the rear-flap closed. He coiled it up and set it on the side table before vanishing into the kitchen and returning with plates of meat. John slipped into his room, and she could hear him speaking to them, although what he was saying she couldn’t tell.

He was in there long enough she began to worry—had they gotten him?—but there hadn’t been much noise, only a bit of clattering, and John was a loud bastard and he surely would have made some sort of commotion if they had, so she remained laying down, trying to let the heat soak away her pains before they left.

When he did leave the room, he was ready to fight. He’d pulled on the clothing he used to wear when they’d go into the forest, hunting Skinners and bounties; just the sight of it, the sight of those clothes and the shotgun in his hand, had her blood pumping and her tail going, and she started to rise to her paws but decided against it when she saw him set the gun down, putting down his satchel and beginning to putter around the house, grabbing things and shoving them inside.

_ “John?” _ she realized suddenly, _ “why didn’t you use that shotgun on Uncle?” _ but, of course, he didn’t hear her, nor did he answer.

  
  


He paused, realization dawning on his face, “Shit! What am I gonna do with you?” Her? What about the others? The horses and cattle and sheep and chickens and Rufus?

_ “I’m going with you, dumbass.” _

“I could put you in the barn, I guess? If I leave you a couple troughs of water and a lot of food? You and Rufus, maybe. I shouldn’t be gone too long.”

_ “I. Am. Going. With. You.” _Blink.

Well, show don’t tell, right? So she groaned, dragged her aching body to her paws, staring at him stubbornly. “Gin, you ain’t coming with me.”

At least he caught on fast?

_ “Like hell I’m not!” _

“Gin, lie down. You ain’t coming with me.”

_ “This isn’t up for debate.” _ How he hadn’t learned not to argue with her over the years was a question for the ages.

He grunted, shaking his head, and she knew that he’d try and keep her from going so, as he finished stuffing his satchel, she kept a close eye on him. The satchel was left inside as he opened the door and slipped out—he needed to fill his horse’s saddle bags—but she didn’t trust him not to leave it and vanish, taking just the things in his saddle bags, so she stumbled after him, trying to work the kinks out of her bones. The heat had done some good, and the adrenaline from the fight, from the Pavlovian response to his clothing, had her moving easier than she had in months.

  
  


He was tacking up Strider, the only sign of the wagon being deep gouges in the ground - the horses had probably fled in terror during the fight. And, looking around, it seemed the other animals had as well… or Uncle had had a feast before coming after them. The fence to the paddock was broken down, no animals to be seen, and she couldn’t see far enough but from what she could tell the chicken pen was just plain gone.

And Rufus was nowhere to be seen.

She hadn’t liked him much, but she hoped he wasn’t hurt. They weren’t the best of friends, but he was still a good boy.

He was turned away from her, so she slunk off to the side of the porch where she could watch him but he couldn’t see her.

Now, to wait.

  
  


She watched as John went back and forth, loading up poor Strider ‘til her saddlebags were stuffed full, clattering with more guns than she could count. Her tail wagged - oh, she remembered _ that, _ remembered countless hunts and bounties, handfuls of horses tacked up the same way, running at John’s side, painless and _ free, _helping to support their family, having the time of her life.

  
  


He popped his head out the door, scowling, and called “Gin? Goddammit Gin, where are you?” stepping out and looking around, “Where are you? This ain’t funny, and I ain’t got the time!” Well, time to face the music, she supposed, and stepped out from the side of the porch, strutting as best as she could and plopping down on her ass next to Strider.

“No, Gin.” he stormed over to her, “I already said no.” his hand twisted in her scruff and he tried to drag her, letting go when she squeaked, digging in her paws. “Goddammit, you stupid dog!”

_ “I’m going.” _

“You ain’t goin’ Gin, inside!” he let go, gesturing at the door.

_ “I’m going.” _ she stared at him, unimpressed.

“Gin.” he gestured again.

_ “Going.” _

“Gin, git.”

_ “Going.” _

John sighed and stooped down, scooping her up, slinging her across Strider’s rump, making sure she was well secured before swinging up himself and turning Strider’s nose to Blackwater, reins in one hand and a revolver in the other.

  
  


_ “I look like you hunted me.” _


End file.
